


World at Midnight

by damalur



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-02
Updated: 2010-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/pseuds/damalur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the worst nights, Faith dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World at Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Porn Battle IX](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/26521.html?thread=2978713#cmt2978713), but without the porn. There was supposed to be comfort sex, but Faith fell asleep instead. Grr argh.

_She makes art from his body. With her hands she takes the raw material of his flesh and bends it to her will, cracks open his skin as a painter cracks open a fresh tube of oil paint, molds his face with her fists as a sculptor shapes wet clay. His pain matters because she enjoys it as an inevitable side effect (as charcoal on her fingertips) and because it is a reflection of the tempest she carries within._

_As is the right of the artist, she sets her mark on him._

_As befits a work of art, he is silent until she gives him voice._

_Still haven't heard you scream, Wes, she says, with a cocky jut to her jaw. She admires the way the reds blend with the black and the blues; she admires the wide sweeps of scarlet down his throat and chest, the way they deepen to a rich crimson on his flanks; she turns and admires the lovely flush of an indigo bruise on one cheekbone—_

_He looks at her, and says, You never will, but there is screaming, there_ is_, she can hear it, it's choking her ears and_

she wakes, clutching half of her pillow in either hand. A cloud of feathers drifts above her head, heightening the disorientation; one settles on her nose. Whimsy, meet panic.

Jesus H. Christ on a pony. Wes is still asleep, and still breathing, even. Faith doesn't have much use for God, but there are nights when she can barely resist the urge to throw herself on her knees and thank the big guy upstairs. (Big girl upstairs, whatever.)

He's sleeping and she leaves him sleeping, lifts herself out of their bed and makes her way through the vast hotel by feel and memory. By now it's habit to pull out two mugs instead of just one, and to add cinnamon after the milk but before the cocoa. Wes had a great-aunt who made hot chocolate this way, though she used the stove over the microwave; when he brings it up Faith always smirks and tells him he can figure out the stove his own damn self.

The hand that lands on her shoulder makes her start and shoot to the silverware drawer (stakes next to the steak knives, is the rule in their household). "Jesus Christ, Pryce," she snaps, "give a woman some warning!"

His expression is wry, a little groggy, and he's about six minutes too early for the reflexive sarcasm to switch on. "Faith..."

"Don't, okay? Just don't."

The microwave beeps and they go for it at the same time and Faith doesn't _snarl_, exactly, but he backs off all the same. Except he doesn't really back off, just shifts directions to slide his arm across her shoulders. She almost shoves him away, but he tugs for a second time and she folds, completely _folds_ like some weepy kid.

"Faith," he says again, and 'cause he's her Watcher and _hers_ he doesn't need to say more. She clings; he's solid under her arms, the ribs, the firm muscles of his back, the lean, familiar strength of his arms, the rasp of stubble against her forehead—she's gotta be careful not to break him, but she's better than she used to be at taking care of her toys. For the moment, he remains whole.

"Here—" He moves her to open the microwave, wraps her hands around a warm mug, and guides her through the lobby and back to their little family room. This one really is theirs, no Slayerettes allowed, not even when they beg to watch the flatscreen that takes up nearly an entire wall. That's Faith's work, of course, but there are plenty of books, too. Not all of them Wes's, even; wasn't much to do in prison, other than read. "Sit," he says.

She sits.

He sits next to her.

They say nothing. Works for her. They sip from their mugs, they breath, they stare into space. Maybe Wes is asleep again; she isn't exactly sure. His bathrobe looks a little worse for the wear. He always insists on a robe, which could be a guy thing or could be a Brit thing or could just be a Wes thing. Faith would parade around in her birthday suit if he didn't take personal offense to the idea.

When her cocoa's too cool to drink—you'd think that it would taste like chocolate milk, except the powder clumps—she sets her mug on the floor. Wes takes her hand and folds it in his, and she lets him. Sometime between midnight and dawn she drifts off like that, curled on their ratty couch, Wesley still holding her hand.

She dreams no dreams.


End file.
